


To Serve Before the Mast

by extraneous_accessories



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Drowning, F/F, Food, Javert Redemption, M/M, Redemption, Starvation, hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:16:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28847421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extraneous_accessories/pseuds/extraneous_accessories
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier, Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7
Collections: Bulletproof 20/21





	To Serve Before the Mast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucymonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/gifts).



Hell is not hot, and Javert does not burn. Salt dust crusts his knuckles where they grip the edge of the plank. No matter how he wills them to release him, to let him slip quietly beneath the waves, still they cling to the rough wood. Screams of the dying fill his ears, the flaming wreck of La Justice crumbling into ash all around him. He is a creature of hunger and pain, wishing with every swell that death will come to relieve the aching that cold that fills his every limb. 

Wishes don’t come true, he knows that. It’s been beaten into him since boyhood and Death is no more obliging than his mother ever was. She would have delivered a stinging slap, but instead he feels hands on his shoulders, a rope beneath his arms, and an awful pull that forces a cry of pain from his cracked lips. 

“Easy now,” says a voice from the heavens, “We’ve got you.”

Dark clouds obscure his vision as firm planks replace the waves at his back and he surrenders consciousness with the ease of defeat.

*

Time becomes a soft liquid, flowing from light to shadow, perforated by the creak of oak and the murmur of voices he doesn’t recognize. In this middle place, untouched by the body, he can nearly see his soul. It is a small thing, beaten and battered, crouching in a corner in the dark, unwilling to be seen or examined. He wants to ask it what it knows, how to help, but words belong to the waking world and he cannot find them. Images flash before him in their stead, pictures he has been running from all his life. Prison. Filth. Rats. Fleas. The endless, hungry hole right through the middle of him that he has never been able to fill. Faces. Voices. The lash of the whip, the cry of the gulls. 

Every wall he has built around himself has crumbled, collapsing in a hot rage along with his ship. Without them, he is naked and the demons pour forth from his memories to claw him to ribbons. He would scream, but screams are for the innocent. 

*

Light, when it comes, burns through to the back of his skull. Dim figures appear before him, strange figures bringing gifts of food and water. The food is broth and the water is lukewarm, but their sweetness brings tears to his eyes. Sensation gradually rebuilds the world before him. Rough cotton. Warm touch. Hunger finally soothed, a fullness he has only ever imagined. Voices, faces, and a demon made flesh. 

Jean Valjean sits in a chair by the edge of the bed, a face from the past returned for vengeance. Soft blue eyes chill Javert’s soul and he is suddenly standing on a precipice, unable to escape the urge to jump. Any moment, the irons will be clapped to his wrists and he will return to hunger, to pain. When his demon speaks, he closes his eyes, unable to face his own ruin.   
“Welcome aboard Tomorrow’s Dawn, monsieur.” 

Javert’s eyes snap open, every sense on the alert as he studies the kind smile on the face of the man in the chair. 

“I...Excuse me?” His voice is rusty with disuse, a harsh instrument in an unsteady hand. 

Valjean’s smile crinkles the edges of his eyes. “I came to welcome you aboard my ship,” he says, as though it is the most normal thing in the world, “I am glad our doctor was able to coax you back from death’s door.” 

Javert blinks, mind racing to bridge the gap between reality and his expectations. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

“You still need rest, of course,” Valjean continues, “but Marius assures me the worst is over for you.”

Javert nods, unsure how to tell a demon that the worst is only beginning. 

*  
Kindness is excruciating. Marius, the young doctor, practices this exquisite form of torture on him daily. 

“You’ve made a remarkable recovery, monsieur!” he exclaims upon their first meeting. “Tell me, what happened to you that you were in such a state?” 

Fear grips Javert by the throat and he swallows hard. “My ship was attacked by the English,” he says cautiously. 

Marius nods sympathetically. “Yes, we did pass through a good deal of wreckage before we found you. I am sorry, that must have been difficult. You sailed with the Emperor’s Navy?” 

A lie waits ready on Javert’s tongue, but he decides it would be futile. “Yes.”

Marius nods, a slight frown puckering his brow. “The Captain thought as much. You’re lucky he’s taken a liking to you.” 

“I am?” 

Marius laughs, as he rises to take his leave, “Oh, the bo’sun wanted to skin you alive. Monsieur Napoleon is hardly popular on the ‘Dawn.” 

*  
Hunger eases slowly. In a past life, he would have turned up his nose at the clear broth and hard tack Marius serves him, but no longer. The broth is comforting, its warmth seeping into his bones. Though he’s in no hurry, Marius assures him that he will be able to return to solid food soon. 

“We need to go slowly,” he comments, watching like a hawk as Javert finishes his small meal. “I don’t want you to get hunger sickness on me.”

“I thought hunger was the sickness?”

Marius’s face darkens, ‘Oh no, that’s the worst of it. If I don’t do my job well, feeding you can make you even sicker. You’ve survived the worst, but we still need to be careful.” 

*

“I don’t mean to intrude,” Valjean tells him a few days later, sweeping into the doctor’s cabin on a fresh salt breeze, “but I do want to ask you a few questions.” 

The axe is falling now, and today Javert feels strong enough to face it like a man. “Anything you like, monsieur.” 

Valjean settles himself into the bedside chair, his face softening into an expression Javert doesn’t recognize. “We will need to discuss your plans for the future,” he begins, “and I want to assure you that my crew and I will honour any requests you may have. In all honesty, I am in need of another honest hand before the mast. You look by your bearing to be a man of the sea, and I would pay well for an experienced sailor.” He hesitates, his words coming just a breath too late. 

“Of course, I understand if a place in my crew would not be to your liking, given your...background. We are on a course to Porto Bello at present, and we can leave you there before we set off on our next cruise if that is your wish.” 

Valjean never says the word ‘pirate’, but Javert has seen enough of the crew to make his own assumptions. He sits in silence for several moments, wrestling with the desire to flee, to get away from this place forever and never stop running. Serving his enemy is punishment enough, but the shame of sinking to piracy is nearly more than he can take. It would have been better to drown among the bones of La Justice, but he cannot deny his debt. He takes a slow breath, settling his frantic heart and forcing unfamiliar words from between lips. 

“I would like a chance to repay you for your generosity, monsieur le capitane.” 

The smile that breaks on Valjean’s face lights the dim cabin. “Good,” he says, his eyes sparkling, “Very good, monsieur. We will be pleased to have you.” 

Javert isn’t sure the captain speaks for all his crew, but he tucks the warmth of Valjean’s words away, holding onto his chance to repay all he owes. 

*

A stiff breeze greets him on the day he finally ventures on deck under Marius’s close supervision. He feels like a newborn, his sea legs like jelly and weak as a kitten. The sun glints off the waves as he grips the rail, steadying himself and trying to remember the roll of the waves. Marius has insisted that he go easy and take breaks, but he isn’t ready to go back into the dank air belowdecks. 

“I’ll be alright,” he assures Marius, gazing out to sea, “I just want to look at her.” 

It’s a fine day and Marius begrudgingly concedes, standing at his side as he watches the water. Slowly, his feet remember how to stand on her and the rolling in his stomach fades away. He is startled from his contemplation by a commotion behind him. 

He turns to see a fight breaking out on deck. In an instant, his back has stiffened, and he has to stop himself from reaching for the empty space at his belt where his cat o’nine used to hang. That isn’t his place any more. 

“Bosun!” 

The voice from the fo’c’sle booms with authority and Javert looks up to see Jean Valjean standing above him, coattails whipping in the wind. His presence is like an anchor, bringing the crew down to earth. Javert can feel the way the tension leaks out of them, only to be replaced by a blushing shame he’s only ever seen in children. 

“Aye, Captain!” One of the combatants, a blonde man in his early twenties, steps out of the crowd, wiping blood from a cut on his cheek. 

Anger begins to seethe inside Javert. In all his years as bosun, he’d never stooped so low as to brawl on the deck with another officer, let alone a common sailor. This child was a disgrace to his office and he looked forward to seeing what justice would be dispensed by a pirate captain. An obscene pleasure blooms in his breast at the thought of what a man like Valjean would do to any man that crossed him. 

As the captain descended to the main deck, Javert searched his face for some sign of the punishment to come. Lashes? Hauling? Or would it be some worse fate than those condoned by the navy? 

The young bosun’s head hung low as the captain approached him, his cheeks burning red. Valjean’s voice was soft and low as he bent toward the boy. 

“Tell me what happened, M. Enjolras.” 

The boy muttered something under his breath and Valjean nodded. “I see. Tell me, monsieur, did you sign articles aboard my ship?”

“Aye, Captain.” 

“And what was the punishment outlined for theft?” 

“Forfeit of a share.” 

“Exactly. And do you recall the punishment for seeking revenge against a crewmate?” 

Enjolras nodded, still staring at the deck. 

“I would like to hear you say it, monsieur,” Valjean says gently. 

“Forfeit three shares.” 

Valjean nods, his lips drawn into a thin line. “Do you trust me, monsieur Enjolras?” 

“Yes, Captain.” 

“Then you will know what to do the next time a situation like this arises?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very good.” Valjean lifts his head and scans the watchful faces of his crew. “Back to your posts, all of you. M. Enjolras has forfeited three of his shares according to our articles. M. Gavroche will forfeit one of his own and return any outstanding shares to M. Enjolras. Is that clear?” 

There are murmurs of assent and the crew disperses. Javert blinks, turning to Marius. “What was that?” 

Marius fixes him with one of his brilliant smiles. “That was the Captain’s justice, monsieur.”

*

“If you intend to sail with us for any length of time, then I’m afraid I must insist that you sign our articles.” 

Javert looks down at the large desk that stands between him and the captain. Several sheets of fine cream paper lay on it, covered in close, precise handwriting. 

“If you are not able to read,” Valjean continues, “then we will find someone to interpret for you. It is essential that every sailor understand what they are agreeing to when they sail under our colours.” 

Javert’s collar prickles. “I can read.”

“Very good.” 

The articles are a strange collection of legal clauses covering every situation from the fight he had observed a few days before to the loss of limb in battle, to the provision of the possession of any deceased member of the company. He reads each line carefully, mystification growing with every word, until he has reached the end of the document. 

“Have you any questions?” 

“None, sir.” 

Valjean nods. “And you understand that, once signed, you are bound to these articles for the duration of your time with us?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then, if you are willing, you may sign.” 

Javert’s stomach gives an awful lurch. With the pen poised above the document, he realizes that the captain has never asked him his name. He has always referred to him as ‘monsieur’ or ‘honored guest’. He’s never been asked a single question, never probed about his life in the navy or before. His hand trembles as he wonders if Valjean has recognized him or it, by signing his name, he will sign his own death warrant. 

In the end, prudence wins the fight over courage, and he merely signs his initials, J.J. 

Valjean looks down and nods once, accepting his anonymity. “Welcome to our crew, monsieur.”

*

He wears his first name with unease in his first days among the crew. Though he allowed Valjean to introduce him as Jacques, the name that has so often been used as a curse feels foreign in the mouths of shipmates. 

Familiar rhythms of ship life would be a balm for his spirit, but the crew of Tomorrow’s Dawn live a twisted sort of pattern that he only barely recognizes. Uncomfortable in the face of their easy camaraderie, he finds himself sitting on the edges of conversations, taking his meals at the far end of the bench, and listening to a world that seems to have drifted out of a fairy tale. 

The thump of a bowl on the table startles him from his solitude one evening and he looks up to see the cook, Eponine, smiling down at him, a slim black girl he doesn’t recognize grinning at her side. 

“Alright, Monsieur Jacques,” Eponine declares, “enough skulking around in the corner.” Without waiting for him to reply, she plops down onto the bench across from him, propping her head on one elbow. 

“This is Cosette,” she adds as her companion sits beside her, “she likes books, birds, and me. Marius wishes she liked him instead, but I got to her first.”

Cosette grins and kisses the cook on the cheek. “What kinds of things do you like, monsieur?” Eponine asks, digging into her soup. 

“I…” Javert hesitates, unsettled by the wide-eyed gazes of the two girls. “I don’t know.” 

Cosette frowns. “You don’t know what you like?” 

“He’s lying,” Eponine says with decision, “Everyone knows what they like.”

“No,” Cosette says simply, her head tilting to one side as she studies him, “They don’t. But I think you must like the sea, monsieur, or you would hardly agree to sail with us when we’re to make port in just a few days.” 

Javert nods. “Yes, I think I do like the sea.” 

“There,” Cosette says, turning to her lover, “This is monsieur Jacques, and he likes the sea. Are you satisfied, ‘Ponine?”

“For now,” Eponine concedes, “but I’ll expect a decent story out of him at some point. No offense, monsieur, but you’re nearly as old as Papa, you’re bound to have some stories worth hearing.”

“Papa?” Javert echoes, unsure he’s heard her right. 

“The Captain,” Cosette replies, “he’s my father and Eponine thinks that because she’s got me she gets to have Papa as well.” 

“I do, he nearly likes me better than he likes you,” Eponine declares. 

Javert is reeling from this conversation, the longest he’s had in months by a long way, but he gives up on trying to keep his head as Marius approaches, setting his bowl down at his side. 

“Have you got the stories out of him yet, ‘Ponine?” he asks, shooting Javert a quick smile. 

“I haven’t many to tell,” Javert protests. 

“Sure,” Marius replies, digging into his dinner, “we’ll see how long that lasts. I’m betting a week, if ‘Ponine keeps onto you.” 

Cosette smiles at him, her dark eyes twinkling, “We’ll see. I’m sure Monsieur Jacques will get to trust us with his stories one day.” 

*

Solitude comes as a welcome respite on his night watch. It’s a clear night, the stars shining down on him like the eyes of God as he paces the deck. Blessedly, it’s also a quiet night, with nothing to break the silence but the voice of the ship and swish of the waves as she ploughs through the water. The steady thud of his boots eases the rapid pounding of his heart, but he can’t stop the racing of his mind as he runs over and over the events of the last few weeks. 

He’s never had the pleasure of a second chance and yet here he stands, gifted this rare thing at the hands of a man who should wish him nothing but harm. He barely has to close his eyes to see the cut of the lash across Valjean’s broad back. He’d delivered lashes before, but for theft from the Captain’s table, he’d nearly had to cut that man to pieces, all without a scream from Valjean. The eyes that had burned up at him still haunt his dreams, all the love they once held turned to hatred. 

A shiver crawls down his spine at the memory and he pulls his coat tighter over his shoulders. It was no small thing to be discharged from the navy. They hadn’t tied Valjean to the bowsprit to starve, but it was near enough to a death sentence to leave a man at port with no hope of honest employment for the rest of his days. He’d often wondered what had become of the man, clinging to the harsh notion of justice to quell his doubts. 

As though summoned by his thoughts, he hears an uneven step on the deck behind him and turns to see Valjean striding across the deck. 

“Evening, monsieur,” he says, giving Javert a cordial nod.

Javert has nearly grown accustomed to the twist in his guts that accompanies Valjean’s greetings, and he nods. “Monsieur le capitaine.”

“A fine night,” Valjean observes, coming to a halt at Javert’s side, looking out to sea. His long fingers fold together atop the rail, a stillness coming over his every limb until he seems part of the ship. 

“Yes, sir.” 

He grits his teeth together against the swell of gratitude rising in his chest. Ever on the attack, he dares to ask. “Why did you pull me out of the sea?” 

Valjean turns toward him, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Because, if I had not, you would have died.” 

“Why would that matter to you?” Javert presses, needing to understand, needing to find a way to fit this incomprehensible man into some sort of sense. 

To his surprise, Valjean sighs and looks back out to sea before saying, “When you were first spotted, I was helping a soul in need. When Marius hauled you aboard, I was proving to myself that I had become a different man.” 

Javert feels his chest tighten, a whisper drawn from his throat against his will. “A different man?” 

Valjean nods. “Yes.” When he turns to face the deck again, there is a coldness in his eyes that hits Javert like a fist to the gut. 

“I would have killed you once, Monsieur Javert,” he says, laying the barest stress on the name. “That anger nearly swallowed me up, but by the grace of God I’ve been shown a different path.” 

Javert’s throat is dry and he feels his pulse along every inch of his skin. “So why didn’t you let me die?” he croaks. “You would have had your revenge.” 

“I would,” Valjean concedes, “but I would have lost everything I have fought so hard to become. I chose instead to let you see a different way to serve before the mast.”

“Why?” Javert demands, his voice rising, “Why have you given me this debt to pay back?”

Valjean steps closer, the bulk of his frame casting Javert into shadow. “Because, if I am to stay sane in this mad world, then I have to believe that you are not beyond the reach of kindness. I need to forgive you, to prove that even you are a man I can understand and perhaps grow to respect.” He takes a shaking breath, regaining his composure. “I want to give you that chance.” 

“I never asked for your forgiveness.” 

“It has always been mine to give and never yours to take.” 

“I broke…” Javert protests, voice cracking with the weight of his sins, “I broke your heart.” 

Valjean’s hand is rough upon his cheek and he looks up into eyes full of pain. “I think you broke your own, mon ami,” he whispers, “and lost your soul into the bargain.”

Javert pulls his face away, treacherous tears springing to his eyes. “You know nothing of what I’ve lost.” 

Valjean nods, voice heavy with sorrow. “And I cannot make you take it back. Only give you the chance. It’s a long road, but I hope you will have the courage to walk it to the end.” 

“And if I refuse?” Javert snaps, still pushing, always pushing. 

Valjean is still for the space of a heartbeat, then looks toward the starry sky. “Then there is the sea,” he says, turning to walk back along the deck, “there is always the sea.” 

There will always be the sea, and always a debt to pay. Javert looks out to see the stars sparkle on the crests of the waves. He has been running for all of his life and a part of him wants to let this chance run away too, but he takes two steps forward and seizes Valjean by the arm. The Captain turns, startled, and before he can lose his courage, Javert leans up to kiss his cheek. 

When he pulls away, his breath coming in short gasps, Valjean stands rooted to the deck before him. "I know I have no right," he says in a rush, fighting the flush of shame crawling over his cheeks, "and I should have asked years ago, but I'm asking for your forgiveness now." 

Stomach in knots, he stares at the deck, waiting for the condemnation he knows he deserves. Instead, he feels the gentle press of Valjean's lips on his forehead, the warmth of his body. "You have it, mon ami. You have it." 

The road to heaven is hot as hell. Javert burns.


End file.
